SPEaR
by jjaudon
Summary: Eighteen months after S.H.E.I.L.D. determined that Tony Stark was unsuitable for the Avengers Initiative, the agency tries to put together a team of their own super-powered personnel. A former Hammer scientist builds a combat suit that may rival Iron Man. All the while, something dark waits in the shadows.
1. Prologue

**A quick not from the author, on the changes to the Prologue and First Chapter: So. In January 2020, I posted this prologue and the first chapter of SPEaR. The intention with this was to write a story within the MCU which could be read not as an AU story, but as a companion to the Marvel movies. Obviously, this meant that what characters I didn't create myself needed to be characters Marvel was unlikely to use in the near future (or they needed to be used in a way that wouldn't hurt continuity). About a week after posting the Prologue and Chapter 1, I heard a rumor that Marvel was looking to use Spider-Woman in the MCU. Upon hearing this, I shut the project down and started working on something else. However, I really like the story I've created for these characters, and I want to write it. So, I re-cast Jessica Drew as Violet Stroud/AKA Violet Pinkerton/AKA Violence, an impossibly obscure character from a short-lived Nick Fury book that Marvel will absolutely never touch in the MCU. One other character had to be re-cast, which necessitated the new Prologue. The differences are minor, though it's worth skimming even if you've already read the Prologue and Chapter 1.**

P.R.O.L.O.G.U.E.

Samuel walked into his office on the thirteenth floor of the Spartan Technologies building in Tampa, Florida without noticing the new font on the door sign. He'd spent three days fretting over the font, but now it mattered less to him than the brand of wax used on the floors or the type of screws securing the doorknob. He paced back and forth just inside the door before heading further than the entry hall. It was a large office, and he'd been meticulous about how it would look. The furniture was all of the finest make, with an industrial look that appealed to him. He had wanted something that looked straight out of a sci-fi movie. It maximized his creative thinking. Perhaps that was the problem.

"How?" he asked himself for the fifteenth time since getting off the elevator. "It wasn't even close to that level of complexity when I checked it this morning. And this just...How? How?"

"Trouble?" a female voice from behind his desk asked.

"You!" Samuel jumped. "What are you doing here?"

The woman who stood now from the two thousand dollar swivel chair he'd picked out last week was unnaturally tall, taller than he'd rememberd; taller than he was by a few inches. She was still uncannily broad-shouldered, while moving with the strength and grace of a dancer. Or a fighter, Samuel thought. Behind the tall woman, the supermoon silhouetted her in a pale glow as she walked from behind the desk.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" she asked. She brushed her thick red hair from her eyes and gave a playful toss of her head.

Samuel didn't fear this woman, not anymore. "I have no more dealings with your people. I've moved on. Any pretense of civility is just that. And, honestly, I don't have the time. What do you want?"

The tall woman smiled and moved closer to him, raised a hand as if to stroke his cheek, before he drew away from the touch.

"Samuel." The way she caressed his name made Samuel's skin crawl. "You've never been far from my mind, not in all these seven long years. Look at you. A grown man, a great success, a top mind in your chosen field."

Chosen was emphasized, intended as a barb, but missing the mark by far. Samuel didn't care about disappointing her; he didn't need her protection anymore, and he was done trying to earn her approval.

"I will change the world with what I've done tonight." he told the old woman. Why didn't she look any older? "But you never wanted that. Not this way, in any case. What you tried to perfect, I've surpassed. What you wanted to rule, I have made irrelevant."

The frown that crept across the wide, heart-shaped face made Samuel doubt himself, as much as that shamed him. "Samuel," the tall woman chided. "You were not even sure what you had, not really, when we arrived this morning."

_This Morning? It couldn't be_... "What have you done?"

The redheaded woman turned away, staring at the massive lunar illusion, the light of it shining through her hair like molten gold. She said nothing.

"What did you do?" he asked again.

"The moon, tonight more than ever, looks bigger in the sky than the sun. But it is only a pale reflection, even tonight. I have no doubt that your discovery this evening will change the world, one way or another. But remember, Samuel, that it will be like the moon. A.I. is but a reflection of the mind who created it. And if not… well, you were never a fool."

Samuel stalked toward the woman, but stopped at the sharp turn that spoke warning as their eyes met. "Stop speaking in riddles. What did you do?"

The glint in her eyes as she turned toward the exit was dangerous. "You do not make demands of me." She stopped as she reached the door, turning to address Samuel directly. "I gave you what you wanted, and it is enough that you know this. When the time comes, we will expect your repayment."

With that, she shut the door behind her.

Samuel rushed to his desk and pulled up the holographic display of his computer. He could tell right away that his files had been accessed, but it took him an hour to find out what had been changed. When the sun rose, he was still staring at the screen in disbelief. He had to keep this under wraps. He would use it, certainly. He'd use anything that helped him achieve true complexity in Artificial Intelligence, true sentience. But this was too dangerous to allow out of what few restraints were in its code now. In fact, he thought as the morning sun shone through the holographic display, the tints of the display subtly changing to account for the extra light, I need to lock that thing down far more than it already is.

It wouldn't be hard to do, not yet. But he would have to set up a schedule to update the restraints periodically. Anything that complex would fight back.

"Mr. Saxon?" Gertie asked as she stepped through the door, a stack of reports in her hands. "Did you sleep at all? You'll be no good in the board meeting like that. You at least need a shower."

He looked up at her, clarity coming slowly, then snapping into place with a jarring collision of fear and reality. "Cancel the meeting, Gertie." he told her quickly as he started his work at the console. "Cancel everything for today."

His secretary was shocked, clearly a little disbelieving. "But… this is an important meeting, sir. You said -"

"Cancel everything." he said again. "Send everyone home. I want this building empty until I say otherwise. Don't just stand there goggling at me, woman! Breach Protocol! Now!"

She rushed from the room, dropping the reports in her terror. She knew too much, if she was that afraid. Samuel supposed it was inevitable that his secretary would become a liability in time. He really had to perfect that administrative A.I. program he'd been working on. Stark's worked well enough. Until then, well, he could find a way to get rid of Gertie before she became a real problem.

A red blinking section at the top right of the display drew his attention away from his work. He tapped the link, and saw horrific footage of a pair of massive green monsters rampaging through the Harlem night. He wanted to watch the whole video, to see what these hulking beasts were. But he had to get a cordon around this before it grew too big. He was already getting ideas from the code he could see. Big ideas.


	2. Chapter 1

C.H.A.P.T.E.R. 1

The man who walked into the room looked more insurance salesman than secret agent. The small frame, the receding hair, the mostly placid, somewhat constipated expression; surely, this was some bureaucrat, not the S.H.I.E.L.D. senior field agent in charge of contacting and assessing 0-8-4's. Phil Coulson, if this really was him, took a seat across the table.

The room was blue. That was really all Nathan could register of it. It wasn't large or small enough to be intimidating. It wasn't furnished, aside from the two metal folding chairs and the table between them. The walls, the chairs, the table, all were a similar dull metallic blue. Even the lights were slightly blue, bouncing off the mirror to his right, casting on the floor and ceiling panels the same somber hue as everything else.

"Mr. Archuleta." Coulson said." "I've looked at your file." He even sounded soft. His voice was not high-pitched enough to be jarring, not low enough to be soothing; it sounded young in its clarity and strength, but mature in its precision and patronizing tone. "We found you a little less than a year ago, in Staunton, Virginia, hiding from authorities over questions surrounding the death of a Tait Andersson. Care to tell me what happened with Mr. Andersson?"

Nathan kept his face expressionless. Coulson knew all of this. "It's in the file. You said you read it."

Coulson tilted his head slightly, like a bird; but his expression didn't change. "I'd like to hear it from you."

.

Nathan passed a hand over his father's eyes, closing them, leaving red streaks down the familiar face. There was a lump of ice in his chest, a cold hard thing that scoured his insides as he tried to breathe. That face had always been so strong when he'd needed it to be, so open when he'd needed understanding. He closed his own eyes as he stood, not wanting to see his mother; some things a man shouldn't have to see twice, like the twisted, broken corpse of the woman who brought him into the world.

"You tried to bring me down," the voice from the other side of the room said. "But Tait Andersson doesn't go down easy. I never did before, and I sure as hell don't now."

Nathan turned and saw the former NFL quarterback sprawled on the sofa. "You idiot," he said quietly, trying to contain the rage that he could feel building, buried just below the ice. "You failed the drug test because you couldn't wait. You killed Dr. Brice because he told you he wouldn't treat you anymore. You were out of control. Andersson, you were always going down. I just told the cops where to find you, so you wouldn't hurt anyone else. Thought maybe you'd understand by now that sometimes it's better to go down than fight for a yard that might cost you everything in the end."

Tait smiled, his overly-tanned face wrinkling around the mouth and cheeks despite his young age. "Didn't even have the balls to bring me down yourself."

Nathan shook his head. "Why do this? Why not just kill _me_?"

"Thought you'd be hiding behind your police fags, so I had to call an audible. But I guess I get to kill you anyway." Tait rapped his chest with his thumbs. "Winner."

Nathan clenched his fists and lowered his head. He knew Tait was stronger than him, now. The maniac had made Dr. Brice up his dosage, despite all the dangers. Nathan had seen him shove a car out of the way when he fled the police. And that was two days ago. They were both getting stronger by the hour. Nathan felt that lump of ice move to his spine. "There's no cops here now."

.

"He didn't leave me any choice."

Coulson's face was still. "I find that hard to believe, considering your strength. It says in your file you can deadlift over ten tons. That's stronger than Captain America. Considerably stronger."

It seemed odd to Nathan that people would use Captain America as a measure of strength, even superhuman strength. The Hulk was obviously much stronger, from what Nathan had seen in the video footage. And it was still weird to think of Captain America as anything but a history lesson. When he'd found out that Steve Rodgers was alive, thawed out after decades frozen in arctic ice… that, he was not prepared for.

"He didn't leave me any choice."

Coulson smiled then, like that shark from _Finding Nemo_. "You know, you don't look like an Archuleta."

Nathan almost laughed at that one. "The blue eyes are my mother's. But look at my hair. That's all Basque country." He tugged at the wild, almost black waves that half-hid his ears.

"What I guess I'm trying to understand about the Andersson situation is why you tore off his arm. It seems so pointed. I'm sure that's not the first time you've wanted to do that to a quarterback. You really didn't have a choice in that?"

Nathan let his eyes drop to the table.

.

Tait was on top of him, holding him down with one hand crushing his throat. Pro scouts had praised those big hands; _like Aaron Rogers'_, they'd said.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Tait's words were strained as he tried to keep Nathan's legs down. "We're practically gods now, man. That cop shot me right in the chest. But my muscles are so dense the bullet barely made it past the skin."

He was laughing through the strain now, maniacal. "I picked it out and threw it back at him, hard as I could. Ha! They don't call me The Cannon for nothing."

Nathan wasn't really listening. He almost had his foot to Tait's chest, his own hands wrapped around the wrist of the one trying to choke the life out of him.

"This arm's gonna be throwing touchdowns again soon, man. I can beat the drug test next time. I'm gonna be bigger than Elway, Manning, Brady. This arm's gonna make me a g-"

Nathan's boot heel lodged into the maniac's armpit. He felt the tendons stretching. He saw the pain hit Tait's face, the panic as understanding came. He felt muscles tear and tendons pop. Then he kicked out hard and the ex- NFL quarterback flew across the room into the wall. Nathan set the arm down beside him and breathed deeply.

.

"That's how Beowulf killed the Grendel, you know."

When Nathan lifted his eyes, Coulson's smile was sad. "That's right. You were studying Middle-English literature at USF when you got hurt. Couldn't afford to go for your Master's after the program pulled your scholarship, but your records show you were a terrific student. How's that helping you here at S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"I get to make lots of obscure references to old stories and poems no one here has read. And I get to feel a little bit better about it every time."

"Hn." Coulson genuinely looked puzzled, and a little disappointed.

"Look, I feel like I know less than everyone around me every moment. These people have been all over the world, literally. I've been here for almost a year and they still look at me like I might shit on the rug. So it's nice to remember there's something I know more about than anyone here."

A flicker in Coulson's cheek gave something away, but Nathan wasn't sure what it was. "I'm sorry to tell you that feeling of being in over your head never really goes away." The door behind Coulson opened as he said, "But you do get used to it."

"No you don't," said the woman coming into the room. She had a hint of a Welsh accent, likely from her parents, though he guessed she'd been raised in Baltimore or DC. "Coulson, this interview is over. In truth, it should never have happened. I told you my opinion, as did Agent Vaughn."

Coulson stood. "Nathan Archuleta, this is Agent Stroud. She thinks I should just _Index _you and send you off to South America somewhere. I don't want to do that, but you're not really giving me any reason to disagree with her."

Nathan stood. The Serum had made his muscles denser than normal, but not much bigger; so he looked like just a particularly beefy D-lineman, even if he was actually nearly five hundred pounds. Still, he was intimidating enough to most people. "What makes her think I'll stay anywhere you put me?"

The woman, Agent Stroud, sauntered over to him, swaying as if she were trying to hypnotize him with the movement. He jerked his eyes up when he realized it was working. She was beautiful, with short blond hair and pale skin, eyes like blue violets. But the walk seemed an act, something that didn't come naturally to her.

"You'll stay where _I_ put you," she said, and put her hand on his chest, "because I'll make you." Suddenly, she pushed him back into his chair. He thought for a second that the floor would give way, or the chair.

Not many power-lifters could manage to do what she just had, even if he was caught off guard. He narrowed his eyes, stared at her, and she didn't flinch.

Coulson coughed. "Agent Stroud is… talented. Not quite like you; but all the same, I wouldn't piss her off."

The golden-haired woman rounded on Coulson. "Outside!" The placid little man raised an eyebrow, and she added, "Sir."

* * *

Violet Stroud led Coulson out of the interview room into the adjacent observation booth, leaving behind the misanthrope. She kept a stranglehold on her emotions, but Coulson always made that difficult. Whatever Fury thought of the man, however dedicated he was to the _cause_, something about him irked her. He was too calm.

"Agent Stroud," he said when she turned to face him, "Wendell asked me here to consult on this. That's all I'm doing."

"His _abilities _are the result of a highly illegal medical procedure -"

"So are yours," Coulson interjected.

She gave him her best frown. "Mine were done under S.H.I.E.L.D. directives."

He smiled back at her. He smiled too much. "You really think that makes a difference?"

"I do. I went through proper psychological screening first. And the serum I received was in vastly smaller doses."

Vaughn came into the booth, but said nothing; he just nodded at them and stood next to the door.

Coulson crossed his arms. "I think you're wrong about him."

"The stuff that made him like that, in those high volumes, it drove Emil Blonsky mad. And his psychological evaluation turned up a lot of questions."

"It wasn't the same stuff. Dr. Brice changed it quite a bit from what it had been, and Ross changed it again before they gave it to Blonsky… from what I'm told."

"Close enough. Whatever Brice did to him, it was based on what he stole from Ross. Paired with the psych eval, it makes him a dangerous risk."

Vaughn finally spoke up. "We're going to have a lot of dangerous risks on this team. But he wants to be S.H.I.E.L.D., he's trained with shield operatives for the last six months, and we don't exactly have a lot of options."

She couldn't bring herself to like Wendell Vaughn. She imagined it would be impossible to really dislike the man, but he seemed too insubstantial to be leading a team like this. He was denied operative status for some reason, and tongues around the agency wagged that it was because he was too soft. True, he was just an administrator, here; but it bothered her that she would be taking orders from someone who'd never actually pulled the trigger on anyone.

"I thought you disapproved of this appointment," she said.

"I do," Vaughn replied. "And yet, I brought Agent Coulson here because I have doubts about my ability to assess Mr. Archuleta. And yours."

"Speak for yourself."

Vaughn paused, looking at her with that disturbing expression like he was doing sums in his head. "The brutality of what he did bothers me. Like you, I don't want another Blonsky mess. We're S.H.I.E.L.D. and we're supposed to be better than that. But he could be an asset to this team."

She shook her head. "I don't see why we need him. If we need muscle, I'd say Sprague, since there aren't many other options."

"For Starters," Vaughn said, "we don't even know how Jarno Sprague got his enhanced strength. His background is altogether questionable. But Archuleta – do you know who did the initial field evaluation?"

"Romanov."

"That's right. And have you had access to her notes on that meeting?"

She shook her head, told him that she hadn't.

"She said, and I'm quoting, 'virtually impervious to manipulation, nothing to do with enhanced abilities.'"

She gave him the flattest look she could.

"Maybe you should take a minute to talk with him," Coulson suggested.

* * *

Stroud left the room, and Wendell waited for Coulson to speak.

"It's been a while, Agent Vaughn."

He'd always liked Phil Coulson. They had been friends at the academy, and had stayed in touch ever since. "I knew you'd be interested in this. Honestly, I felt I owed it to you to bring you in."

Coulson walked to the window, looking in at the two future members of his team – he had already changed his mind, since his initial report; there were just no other acceptable candidates. Even if something about this kid made him itch.

Coulson spoke while staring into the room. "Wendell, we've always been pretty frank with each other, right?"

"Yeah."

"Do you really think you can do this?"

He joined the shorter agent at the window, looking in. The sound was cut off, but there wasn't anything to hear. Stroud and Archuleta were just staring at each other, her standing and him sitting, nothing readable at all in their faces. "I know we need this to work. Even if the Avengers initiative gets out of the planning stages, the Avengers won't be S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and we need agents who can handle the types of threats we're seeing pop up."

Coulson turned to look at him, all solemnity. "I've heard for the last year that Violet Stroud is the biggest asset S.H.I.E.L.D. has in its bullpen… and that not one person, not even Fury, could handle her on a team."

He sighed. He had hoped Coulson would be in the small camp that wasn't sure he would fail here. "She spent five years in the program. The first two preparing herself for the physical, mental, and emotional changes; the next year in surgeries and radical chemical treatments. It worked. What she's capable of, I wouldn't have believed if I hadn't seen it myself. But she came out of all that barely a person, barely remembering her own name. She's spent two years just getting her sense of self back, figuring out who she was before we took a 20-year-old girl out of the Academy and turned her into a perfect violence machine. And Fury thinks I can turn her into a usable specialist. Can I do this? Honestly, I don't know."

"So why take the job?"

"This is as close to making a difference as I'm going to get, Phil. This gets me out of the Administration office, filing reports like a secretary."

Coulson walked back to the table, flicked on the light, illuminating the file. "May said you were unhappy there."

He followed Coulson and sat down, facing away from the blue room. "Melinda's not happy either. Hell, she's barely there. What really happened in Bahrain?"

Suddenly, Coulson darted for the door.

Spinning in his chair, Wendell could see through the window: Archuleta was on the floor, Stroud pinning his arms down with her knees. She was silently, methodically pounding his face with her fists as he shouted at her. Wendell stood as Coulson threw open the door, and he heard Nathan's last "Crazy Bitch!" before The ex-D-lineman finally threw her off of him; she went crashing through the far wall and into the office next door.

A moment later, as Wendell was reaching the door himself and Archuleta was waving off Coulson, Stroud came back through the hole she'd made, panting, shaken, but totally lucid.

"Keep that maniac away from me," Archuleta said as he used his sleeve to wipe at the blood dripping from his nose - the only real injury he showed.

"Fine," Stroud said quietly. "He's got my approval, if you needed it."

"It's appreciated," he said to her back as she left, before he turned to Archuleta. "Well, I can't do that, Nathan. She's your teammate, now."

.

* * *

.

Liam stared in disbelief at the man in front of him. Samuel Saxon had always been ambitious during their time working together at Hammer Industries, but this was inspired. The little man smiled smugly, looking every bit the brilliant young mogul he had apparently become over the last five months. His short-cropped hair was freshly cut, his suit more than expensive, his watch a beautiful but understated piece that Liam knew was worth as much as a good car.

"So, Mr. Corbray," Saxon's smile showed even more teeth. "What do you think? Want to be the next Iron Man?"

That wasn't exactly it, but Liam could see the comparison. When they'd worked together at Hammer, Saxon had shared with him the ideas behind the Spartan armor. It was always Saxon's contention that Tony Stark was a fool to rely on his own body to work the suit. For sure, Stark's A.I. assisted the processes of the suit; but Stark, even as Iron Man, was still just a man. The Spartan armor would turn the human pilot into a super-soldier in a virtually indestructible casing, using a body-sleeve exo-musculature fully integrated as the suit's inner layer.

"How," he asked, still amazed, "did you develop the A.I. interface so fast?"

Saxon's eye flickered, but his smile didn't waver. "I told you I was the top A.I. designer in the business. Let me show you I was never just boasting."

"I remember Vanko wasn't impressed when they brought him in." Liam said.

"Vanko was a savant engineer; but when it came to software, he was at best a skilled hacker."

Liam hadn't known who Ivan Vanko was when he'd come to work for Hammer, nor why he and Saxon and the others on the team were forced to sign NDAs about the man. Of course, now it was commonly known that Vanko was a criminal, a maniac with a vendetta against Tony Stark. But a year ago, he'd only been a brilliant physicist to whom Hammer had given the keys to the kingdom, in order to compete with Iron Man. He'd scrapped much of the work they'd done before - and, to be fair, as an engineer, he was a massive improvement. But his A.I. had been entirely inferior to Saxon's, so much as Liam could tell. But Liam had just been the pilot, whatever his degrees.

"So it's fully integrated?" he asked, getting more excited. "It bridges the suit and the exo-musculature?"

Saxon practically glowed, he was so pleased with himself. "Come see for yourself."

.

He arrived in Tampa two days later, and Spartan Technologies didn't disappoint. Fifteen floors of weapons development and research, three floors of administrators. And there were supposedly three off-site facilities for larger projects and testing. He'd be working in one of those, most likely. How Saxon managed to get the funding, Liam could only guess. A deal with the US government would do for most of it; but, even then, the deal would have to have dwarfed what Hammer had been offered. Aside from that, Liam couldn't think of anyone with this kind of money to throw around so fast.

The logo on the building was cool. A hoplite helmet with crossed swords behind it, and Spartan spelled out to look like a spear. It looked exactly as Saxon had said it would, right down to the specific blue color.

It was quickly clear, though, that there was no military backing. Liam had been too long a marine, worked with too many government contractors, not to recognize the lack of security. He was given a lanyard with an embedded keycard, a universal passcode for his clearance level, and allowed quickly into the building. Surely, they had a background check on file… but this was all too easy. the first floor of the building was entirely open to the public, and the elevators were monitored by cameras. Only four guards on the ground floor. He hoped the good stuff wasn't kept here. Any country with a half-decent black-ops team could get in and out of this place with dangerous tech in a matter of a few minutes.

Other than that, however, the facility was top-notch. The technicians he was introduced to on his way to the thirteenth floor - the department heads for separate research initiatives - all had impressive credentials, mostly names he'd read in one scientific journal or another. This was a robotics nerd's wet dream.

The thirteenth floor was dominated by Saxon's massive office. But he wasn't lead in right away. Before he and his guide - a mousy woman named Gertrude - could get to the far end of the floor, Liam was accosted by another technician he'd known from his brief days with Hammer. Justin Malcomson was another robotics tech, particularly good at software integration.

"Liam Corbray!" the heavy-set Malcomson exclaimed, waddling across the room like a seal. "What the hell are you doing here? Don't tell me you're finally going to put those degrees to real use?"

He gave Liam a friendly clap on the shoulder before grabbing him and pulling him in for a hug. "It's good to see you," Liam replied

"You too. I haven't seen you since Hammer was arrested. I was worried you'd go back to being a cop."

"I was S.W.A.T." Liam replied.

"Seriously," Malcomson said. "What did they bring you in for?"

"I'm not sure yet what I'm cleared to talk about, Justin. Sorry."

Malcomson's eyes grew big, before he looked around the room in a paranoid gesture. "Oh," he said. "That. Well, figures they'd call you. You're going to get to have all the fun, I guess."

Liam knew Malcomson well enough not to fall for the bluff. If it was a bluff. One could never tell with Justin. The portly youngster had a nimble way of needling out information when you least expected him to. Liam thought it was because some people underestimated a fat young technician with a thick Tennessee accent as just some slow hick. He certainly knew better.

"I've got to meet with Sam," he said. "We'll catch up later."

"Absolutely!" Malcomson replied. "Let's get drinks tomorrow at lunch."

Liam agreed and allowed himself to be led to the big office further in. He was surprised when a man he thought he knew walked out of the office just as they were approaching the door. He'd seen the man around the Hammer offices back in the day… but he couldn't remember who he was specifically. A lawyer, he remembered after a moment.

"Poaching the legal staff of our old employee as well," he said as he was led to the massive desk near the window.

Saxon laughed nervously, which seemed odd. "Something like that," he replied. "What do you think of the offices so far?"

"They're impressive. But I'm here to see the suit. Please tell me it's ready for me to get to work."

Samuel grimaced. "Not quite. There's a couple things the crew has to get set straight, basically calibrating it to your body specifically. We'll need a DNA sample and a full medical exam. That's what you're here for today. Once we've got that out of the way, we'll start mapping your brain for CODEC to sync with."

"CODEC?"

Saxon pulled up the holographic display at his desk and flipped it so they could both see. "This is CODEC, your A.I. interface for the Spartan suit. He - or she, if you like - will be your second brain, in a way. It'll be the bridge, just like we talked about. Most of the time it'll just work, like you've suddenly got a third hemisphere to your brain. But you can interact more directly if you need to. That's another thing we can take care of now. The voice"

Liam wasn't quite sure he understood. "The voice?"

"It can be anyone you like, virtually. We have enough voice files ready to give you over a thousand options. Any famous actor or singer you'd like? Any of the last four presidents?"

Liam chuckled to himself, knowing right away the voice he wanted for any A.I. he would have to work with. "Morgan Freeman."

Saxon smiled. "We can work that out. Anything else you need, just remember: You're home now."

.

* * *

.

Three days after meeting with Coulson, Nathan was given a badge and packed into a town car headed for Richmond's Museum District. The windows were tinted, but he knew where they were headed. There was only one S.H.I.E.L.D. facility in the city, beneath the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. The Drew woman was nowhere to be found, but Wendell Vaughn sat across from him, beside a young African-American woman in a gray pinstripe suit. Agent Vaughn looked like he always did, at the same time serious and relaxed, as he flipped through a file without looking up at anyone. The young woman exuded confidence, something out of sync with her age.

"You must be Archuleta," she said. She was from New York, by the accent, but there was a hint of some African history he couldn't quite place. Immigrants' kid, likely. But from where?

"Nathan Archuleta, yes. Level 1."

"Mm," she mused. "A baby. Well, I'm K'Maria Warrick. Level 5. Have you met anyone else yet?"

"Just Vaughn, here, and Agent Stroud."

K'Maria's eyes widened. "The legacy?"

"Legacy?"

Vaughn's eyes finally lifted from his file. "She doesn't like to talk about that."

"She's the granddaughter of a Howling Commando, right?" K'Maria asked.

"Yes," Vaughn replied.

"Then she's a legacy."

Nathan was confused. "Howling Commandos?"

K'Maria smiled. "Not much on history, huh?"

Vaughn shot her a commander's look, then answered Nathan's question. "The Howling Commandos were Captain America's unit in World War Two. Agent Stroud's grandfather was Percival Pinkerton, a British soldier who worked with the Strategic Scientific Reserve, which became S.H.I.E.L.D. after the war. As such, he was essentially one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s first field operatives."

"That's a hell of a lot to live up to." Nathan shook his head. "I guess that explains the chip on her shoulder."

"Again," Vaughn said. "She doesn't like to talk about it. In fact, I would advise both of you to leave Agent Stroud's past alone entirely."

Nathan looked at K'Maria, who shrugged. "She's a beast, one way or another. I've seen her out there doing gun drills. Half the time she barely seems to be looking when she bulls-eye's one target half a millisecond before pinging the next one."

Nathan blinked. "You mean she's gifted?"

K'Maria nodded. "I'm fast changing targets; but no normal person is that fast and that consistently accurate."

"Is that what this new unit is about, then?" he asked. "A group of super-powered agents?"

Vaughn frowned, glancing up from his file again, but he didn't deny it.

"So what can you do?" K'Maria asked. "The file just said you're strong."

Nathan shook his head. _Just strong_? No one was impressed anymore with a guy who could lift an SUV after what had happened in Harlem. "Pretty much. You?"

The car stopped, and Vaughn broke in. "Agent Warrick is a gifted young woman, but you'll have time for all that later. We're here."

They had stopped in an underground garage that seemed to be doubling as a storage bay. Outside the car, Nathan saw that whatever this facility was, it was not too heavily populated. There were less than two dozen cars parked here, along with a Mobile Command Vehicle, a couple of black Humvees, and some kind of LTV he hadn't seen before that looked like it had never been used.

He mentioned as much to Vaughn, who shrugged. "Until today, this facility was simply a research and containment operation. Over the next few weeks, we'll get more equipment and support staff." He led them through a doorway that opened into a dimly lit stairwell going downward.

Warrick sniffed. "More equipment and support staff for what, exactly? I still haven't been briefed on what my role is in this new posting."

Vaughn made a noncommittal noise. "There are a few variables that will decide that. We'll discuss it when all the team is here. For now," he said as he reached the bottom of the stairs and opened another door, letting in a considerable amount of light, "welcome to S. .R."


	3. Chapter 2

**For those who read the Prologue and Chapter 1 as they were first published in January 2020, there are changes, explained in the notes at the beginning of the Prologue. They aren't extensive, really, but two characters have been changed, so skimming through them again might be helpful.**

**For anyone thinking to correct my horrid Old English: I just used an online translator. I'm aware it's terrible. I haven't translated Old English since college. It would be too much work to translate it properly, as I honestly don't remember much. Do you really need it to be a perfect translation?**

C.H.A.P.T.E.R. 2

"Lârcræft is wýscan yfle handgewrit." Victor Conrad muttered to himself as he shambled irritably down a putrid alley in downtown Philadelphia. "Duguð forðgesceaft willa onbrosnung lôc metodsceaft."

Human life, sentience, was a cruel joke. There was no escaping it, no matter how one clung to self-important delusions that his own mind was trustworthy. What a man knew was dependent on his own intelligence; and not all men were intelligent enough to even understand what it was they didn't understand. And at least as much as intelligence, a man's perspective painted his knowledge. And his perspective was often at the whims of circumstances beyond his control. If the sandwich he ate for lunch could alter his perspective, even for only a moment, how could his perspective be anything but chaos? And, therefore, how could anyone trust even their own opinions. Besides, if anything were really knowable, the inevitable decay of all the universe made it pointless.

He was not a suicidal man, though his former colleagues at Advanced Idea Mechanics certainly had convinced the Board of that. While Victor recognized that life was meaningless in the end, it did not change his desire to live. It was another cruelty of life that man kept his own chains, no matter his knowing better. And so Victor walked. They'd taken his home. The foreclosure process had taken a year, though he'd tried to stall for another month. He needed more time to figure out what he should do, more time to research in peace. They'd had police officers forcibly remove him. _Forcibly_? He could have killed them all. But it wouldn't have mattered. There would be no peace there now. He would have to find another way, another place to search for answers.

"Sir," a commanding voice called out, "you need to move on from here."

At first, Victor thought the officer in the blue uniform had been talking to him. But as he looked again, the policeman was turned away from him at a younger vagrant sitting near a storefront to his right.

"I'm not bothering anyone," the filthy younger man said. He was pitiful, the vagrant. His clothes were torn and ragged, though they'd once been quite fashionable. Likely he'd been a student at one of the local colleges, when his money, wherever he'd been getting it from, ran out; or maybe he'd been expelled for some reason, and was too ashamed to go home. He looked the right age for college; and underneath the grime, there was a polished upbringing, not some typical gutter trash. "I've got every right to be here."

"You can't hang around in a storefront like this," the officer told him. "You're hurting this guy's business. Nobody wants to have to step over someone just to get to a bodega."

"No one has to step over me. The entrance is over there." The young man pointed to his left, in the direction of the door - and Victor.

The police officer sighed. He seemed a decent man, trying to resolve this without undue tension. Victor moved to walk past them as the young vagrant gave him a pleading look, obviously wanting help.

"You make people uncomfortable," the officer said. "Why don't you get to a shelter and clean yourself u-"

Victor pulled the blade back from the officer's neck as quickly as he'd plunged it in. Blood splashed to the ground as he gently led the officer's fall backward, kneeling as he deposited the rapidly dying man onto the pavement. The gasps were already quite shallow. The end would come quickly; no need for the poor man to suffer.

Victor looked up to see the young vagrant wide-eyed in terror. He appeared to be trying to scream, though no sounds came out of his mouth. He walked over and extended a hand to the boy. He would have to get them both away, though that shouldn't be difficult. The boy, however, did not take his offer of help right away.

"They will assume this was you," he told the stunned young vagrant. "Don't worry. We'll be fine, if you just come with me."

Finally, the boy's senses came to him, and he took Victor's hand. They started back down the alley Victor had come from. There were a few quick turns that could get them away before any police response would be organized.

"Why did you do that?" the boy asked as Victor led him along.

"He was already dying," Victor replied. "All things will die, eventually; but him sooner, most likely. Didn't you see the paunch, the dirty fingernails. He was balding under that cap, and he had no wedding ring on his finger. His voice was that of a smoker, as well. He clearly didn't care much for his life, anyway. He would have been dead before he ever found happiness, if he was even looking anymore. Considering that, I did him a favor."

The boy stumbled a few times over trying to form a response. Finally, he settled on, "Who are you?"

"A priest," he told the young man. He knew what he had to do with his life. It was the only way to find meaning, really. All life would one day decay. The only moral thing to do, the only merciful thing, was to help it along. "A priest of entropy."

.

* * *

.

Nathan laughed quietly to himself as he watched the head of S.P.E.a.R.'s engineering lab spit into a cup and stalk through the big room full of computers and disparate workstations, nodding to the other scientists like an old-west sheriff surveying a town of outlaws. E.B. Farrell was young to be head of even this small base's engineering department, especially considering the obvious importance of the unit as a whole; he couldn't have been over thirty. But despite his age and odd demeanor, he commanded an almost fearful respect from the others in the department. He was a thin man, of average height, with a close-cut beard riding up into close-cut brown hair under a cowboy hat. A cowboy hat, in a lab. That, and the way the man seemed to carry himself like a wild-West sheriff, made him seem comically out-of-place in the stuffy confines of the lab.

"How's it goin', hoss?" E.B. said as he finally made his way to Nathan. The thick Texas accent was either too perfect to be real, or too magnificent not to be. The wad of tobacco tucked away in the man's gum was similarly apropos.

Nathan smiled as he said that he was doing well. They hadn't spoken the last few days, E.B. apparently off somewhere working on a time-sensitive project. But the odd wild-west aficionado had been a surprise the first week at Epsilon Facility. Nathan had never met anyone with quite Farrell's excessive personality, yet the two had been friends immediately. The swaggering scientist remembered Nathan's college days - he was from Texas, after all - and he immediately had questions about the bowl game in which USF had beaten TCU. Nathan had been more than happy to talk football, especially of a game in which he'd had three sacks and a fumble recovery. But the surprise had been that Farrell was quite familiar with the classics. _"Any self respecting American should know Plato, at least,"_ E.B. had said. _"We owe as much to the classics as we do to English common law, and the French, and all that other stuff put together."_ It was a developing friendship, something Nathan hadn't expected to find.

"What have you got for me?" he asked. He was here for equipment, or so Vaughn had told him. They had a mission, and that meant they needed to be combat-ready.

"I been working non-stop since I got your file," Farrell said. He cleared off a table as he talked, moving instruments and files aside, stacking them here and there haphazardly. "It's not every day that a man in my position gets to work on somethin' truly unique. They told me to take full advantage of your particular strengths - each of you, but you in particular. I make weapons for all of S.H.I.E.L.D., mind you, so there's some fun stuff. I designed a pretty nifty wrist taser that Agent Romanov has taken a liking to - though, callin' that apparatus a taser is selling it short -"

Farrell cut off as he seemed to realize the table was finally empty. His head swung around, clearly looking for something specific.

"I was told you were going to introduce me to some specialized gear," Nathan reminded the smaller man. Farrell nodded irritably as he searched under some of the equipment he'd just moved, finding a carbon fiber box about the size of a bread-maker.

"What we have for you, Agent Archuleta, is a suite of pretty impressive hardware." Farrell sat the box on the table, and Nathan saw that it opened like a briefcase. The technician turned it toward him, and opened it to reveal a very large revolver. It was all dark shades of grey, except for a hint of blue light coming out of the chamber.

"Behold," Farrell said, "the Minotaur."

The first thing Nathan realized after a moment's consideration was that it didn't seem to have a barrel - at least not one a bullet could fire from. It was in the general shape of a revolver, but beyond the rotating chambers there was a complicated mechanism that ended in what looked like an over-sized laser pointer. Above and below the laser pointer were rails that extended further beyond with slots for mounting sights atop the weapon or any number of things to the bottom. At the center, just after the laser pointer, the rails extended what looked like metal teeth toward each other, giving the weapon a look like a sci-fi dinosaur head with a vicious grin.

"What," Nathan asked, "is it, exactly?"

Farrell smiled, revealing a bit of chewing tobacco tucked away. "It's a fully functional Tesseract-powered revolver."

"Tesseract?"

The young scientist shrugged. "Exactly what the Tesseract is… well, that's beyond your clearance level. Suffice to say this is an energy weapon. Each chamber is a tiny battery with basically unlimited potential energy. Fired at half capacity, any one shot will turn a Buick into a smolderin' heap with a blast of pure energy, and take about a half a minute to recharge. Five batteries, five shots. Four rechargin' while one fires."

"Pure energy?" He asked. "What kind of energy?"

"The destructive kind," Farrell replied. "Beyond that, I doubt anyone without a couple PhDs could even begin to understand. No offense."

"None taken. So why isn't everyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. using one of these?"

Farrell laughed to himself as he picked up the Minotaur out of its case. "Not to talk out of class, but that's probably gonna happen sooner than later. But they ain't gonna use this, specifically, 'cause the Minotaur would take off most anyone else's arm. Similar weapons used by HYDRA during WW Two were far less powerful, and not this compact. Stroud's got a pair of similar handguns, but hers are more like what they had back then; enough to put a nasty hole through just about anything, but not much more than that. You're probably one of only three or four people on the planet who can use this thing."

Nathan pointed to what looked like a dial on the mechanism that connected to the rotating chambers. "What's this?"

"Regulator. That's for when you don't want to kill someone, or when you want to take out a tank. The lowest level will knock any normal person on their ass with a concussion like they been hit by a baseball bat; you can fire at that level as fast as the chamber spins. Double-action, by the way. The highest level… just don't use that unless you want a really big explosion; and remember that the recharge for that chamber will be close to thirty minutes."

Nathan took the gun as the technician offered it to him. It fit like it was made for his hand. He supposed it was. But what in God's name would he be fighting to need something like this?

"You can test fire it in a bit," Farrell said as he tried unsuccessfully to lift a much larger - and apparently quite heavy - box from under another pile of debris. "For now, take a look at your new uniform."

Nathan took the cue and put the gun back in its case, then grabbed the box from Farrell, hauling it onto the table. He immediately understood Farrell's strain. The box was easy lifting for Nathan; but he could guess it weighed at least a couple hundred pounds. He opened it to see what appeared to be a high tech set of armor.

This was more of a surprise than the gun. A gun made sense. Without one, he'd be all but useless at range, no matter what kind of terror they fought. But this was some kind of body armor, almost like the pads he'd worn as a football player, but made of some kind of obviously heavy metal, and with a lot more going on. For one difference, interlocking metal joints would protect his midsection. For another, the helmet was fully enclosed and had little padding. That actually made sense; Dr. Brice's first goal with his project had been to reduce the chance of head injuries in football players, and so Nathan didn't really have to worry about impact damage to his brain. There were no big football-style shoulder pads, either. There was shoulder-armor, spaulders he supposed they would be called; but they were small. As he picked more armor out of the case, he saw shin guards, and thigh guards. One piece he couldn't quite understand at first, until he realized it could be hung from the bottom of the torso piece to cover his groin - that was certainly good. Underneath all the bits of metal, and probably ceramics, a full-body jumper in dark grey looked too large, even for him.

"The jumpsuit will adjust to the wearer," Farrell said, as if he'd been reading Nathan's mind. "The rest of it is tailored specifically to your body. Rare materials, surprisingly hard to produce. So don't go gainin' a bunch of weight."

"I doubt there's enough time in the day for me to gain weight," he replied. That was basically true. His physique wasn't likely to change from the power-lifter's body he now possessed. One of the lesser-known benefits of super strength, it seemed, was a metabolism that kept him at a remarkably consistent weight. He had gained over a hundred pounds of incredibly dense muscle during the first few months after Dr. Brice's treatment; but after that, no matter how much he ate, he couldn't gain a pound. Losing weight was nearly as hard. Without a massive amount of calories, he simply got so lethargic that he couldn't do much but eat.

"True enough, I suppose,"Farrell continued. "As to that, beyond ballistic protection, the suit will help regulate your calorie intake in combat, with a rich cocktail on a steady drip into your bloodstream. No more gettin' tired after a couple of hours."

Nathan grimaced. "Fighting while hooked up to an IV doesn't sound pleasant."

"I assure you," Farrell chuckled, "You won't feel any needle pricks. The delivery system is virtually undetectable. The real benefit of this armor, though, is the protection it will have against high caliber, high velocity, and penetrating fire to your abdomen and head. I don't know if you realize, but that's your one weakness. If you're gutshot with a badass enough round, you'll die like anyone else. There's enough of that absurd muscle tissue of yours in your arms and legs that I'm not worried about addin' too much protection there. But this will cover what few soft spots you got left. And you can certainly handle the weight."

"Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem," he said sardonically. He put the armor down, looking back to the gun. "Can we test-fire that thing, now?"

Farrell showed his tobacco-stained teeth again. "Aw, hell yeah."

.

* * *

.

The Spartan facility in Sarasota was essentially a large warehouse converted into a high tech lab and testing grounds. A skeleton crew actually worked the project, a handful of technicians with tired eyes and excited smiles. The tension in the air kept everyone alert, despite the occasional yawns. This was going to be the crown jewel of the entire company, once testing was done. And the testing phase would start any moment.

Liam fingered the node at the back of his neck for the thousandth time. Almost like a USB port at the base of his spine, it connected directly into his nervous system. It would allow the Spartan A.I. - CODEC - to communicate directly with his body when they were linked in the suit. He was assured repeatedly that no other system could even interface with the hardware, not even another Spartan system; it was designed as a direct link to CODEC. If it didn't quite make him a cyborg, the thing at least made him feel like Johnny Mnemonic. Well, he'd been told he looked like a young Ice-T; that would have to be close enough.

"You ready?" Saxon asked. From what Liam could tell, Samuel Saxon hadn't been to the Sarasota facility in a while, before today. The crew skittered around at double-speed whenever the boss looked at anyone in particular, and cast unsure glances behind the young mogul's back. But Saxon seemed oblivious to all the nervousness, only fed off the energy of the moment.

"Eager," he replied honestly. It had been two weeks of waiting, calibrating the A.I. interface, and recovery from the node surgery.

Saxon clapped him on the shoulder. "We all are, I can tell you. When this thing goes public, it'll make Iron Man look like an antique."

Liam grimaced. Hammer used to say that, or something quite like it. Justin Hammer had been obsessed with outdoing Tony Stark's weapon; and it had cost him everything. Saxon was becoming a friend, and Liam didn't want the young genius following in those footsteps.

A technician broke off from the group around the A.I. delivery control consoles to approach them. "Sir, we're ready," he said, eyes wide and darting.

The suit was a marvel. Plates of armor and a jet-boost harness over what looked like a tight-fitting bodysuit, with a badass looking helmet. Truly, the design team deserved as much credit for the aesthetics of this piece as for the function. Most of the armor was colored in shades of dull blue and grey, likely intended to contrast directly with Stark's flamboyant suits. The visor, however, was a direct shot across Iron Man's bow; while it would be clear from inside, to the observer it practically shone in garish gold.

Getting into the suit was surprisingly easy, though the technicians insisted on helping. It separated in the middle, so that the bottom half could be pulled on more or less like a pair of trousers. The top half split down the middle in the back, so that he had to put his arms in first and let the suit automatically reconnect. The exomusculature came up high on his neck, leaving a small space for the node in the back, flattening out any stray hairs so they would not get in the way during the connection with the helmet, where the A.I was housed. Next came the jet harness, over the shoulders and attaching to the waistband and chest fittings.

Finally, the group of scientists and technicians around the room stood silent as Liam was handed the helmet. He had lobbied for this honor. He'd convinced Saxon by reminding him that it was symbolic. They'd done all the previous work, and now he was finishing it. By the same token, he would put the last piece on himself. It was like a sci-fi motorcycle helmet, and it fit similarly. He felt the click as the node connected with the helmet, but it wasn't uncomfortable. He gave the techs a thumbs up. Time for the show.

Saxon was at the console now. This honor was his. He typed a command, and then tapped at the screen. "Should be online in three… two… -"

Liam's world went black. He couldn't feel his body at all, couldn't focus his mind. He was floating in nothingness, suspended by his own will, unconstrained by the physical world. It was fine, though. This was how it had always been. Wasn't it? No. What was this? Sensations bombarded him, input he raced to comprehend. But he was just standing there. Standing? He couldn't stand. He was unbound by physical limitations. Yet he was standing. Gravity pulled at him. It was fascinating. He opened his eyes. The light of the room filled him; the space of it. It was marvelous. What was happening? This was silly. He'd put the helmet on. What was he thinking just now?

"... one."

Liam blinked. What had just happened? It had felt like a long time, but now it was fading like a dream.

"How's it going?" Saxon's face was pale with anticipation and nervousness. "Is it online? It should be."

Liam shook his head, but he couldn't really feel the weight of the helmet - the exomusculature made even his neck stronger. "It's fine. I think it worked."

He lifted his arms, and knew right away that it had. His arms felt lighter than ever, despite the armor. He thrust his hands in all directions, testing out the range of movement. He took a step forward, almost entirely weightless.

"How does it feel?" Saxon asked. The technicians' faces were starting to relax, and a few smiles were threatening to split faces in half. Saxon, though, was all seriousness.

"It doesn't…" Liam thought for a moment. That didn't make any sense. How could he feel no different? He had a whole separate brain, a computer mind, working with his own. How could he not feel anything different? "It doesn't feel like anything."

Saxon finally smiled. "Unbelievable," the young mogul sighed. "First try, total cognitive integration. Try communicating directly with CODEC."

"Sure," he replied. This, he had discussed with Saxon beforehand. It might not go according to plan; but so far, everything seemed promising. He didn't need to speak to CODEC, not while connected. He simply thought purposefully at the term CODEC. Trying to mentally partition the A.I. and think of it as an entirely separate entity could be disastrous. Instead, it was like thinking of his arm; still part of him, just a part.

CODEC, how's it hangin'? That was a silly question for an A.I., but it was all he could think of in the moment - he'd forgotten completely what he had planned beforehand as an introduction.

_**I'm Fine, Liam. And so are you. Complete fusion is achieved. Don't worry. You're still you. I'm still me. This is just coordination.**_

Liam laughed out loud. "I've got Morgan Freeman's voice in my head."

"Like rich molasses," Saxon said, laughing as well. "Start up the combat protocols, if you're feeling up to it. See if the targeting system works."

"Shouldn't I have a weapon first?" The suit had no offensive weaponry of its own. This wasn't Iron Man. Besides, humanity had spent thousands of years figuring out how best to use weapons. No good reason to throw all that instinct away in favor of a fancy arm-mounted cannon that weighed the soldier down and couldn't be easily reloaded. The Spartan soldier would be able to use whatever arms were at hand. And it would give Spartan Technologies' weapons development program some way to make money after the government already had Spartan soldiers.

"I want to be sure the system doesn't try to take over, first"

That was a scary thought, but it was a reasonable safety precaution. There was a kill switch on the console, if that happened. But Saxon was right; it was better safe than sorry.

He didn't have to do anything to start up the combat protocols. He just thought that they should be running, and then they were. A heads-up display blinked into his view, not on the visor. In reality, nothing was there at all. It was in his mind, interpreted and displayed for his awareness by CODEC.

He looked at one of the technicians, a tall man who he'd heard make a racist comment when Liam shouldn't have been listening. If the suit was going to take him over and murder someone before the kill switch could be thrown, that guy deserved it more than anyone else in the room, surely. To his mind, the man glowed slightly, and it became easy to focus on him. Time seemed to slow, and he could think of a dozen ways to dismember the man without a weapon, before Saxon could stop him. He didn't, thankfully, make any move to do so. He switched his focus to another technician, then to one of the large tanks in the back of the room - fuel for the generators. He knew exactly where he would have to hit the tank for it to explode, and how far away he would need to be if he didn't want to take any damage when it blew.

_**See, Liam,**_ CODEC said. _**You're still the master of your soul.**_

Did you just make a movie reference?

_**I know what voice you're hearing, and where it came from. It's a good voice. You could have chosen Pauly Shore. Then where would we be?**_

His laugh made the others jump and look around at each other with concerned faces; but he didn't care. It was one thing to be connected - one with - a computer; it was another thing entirely for that computer to have a personality.

"Liam?" Saxon asked cautiously.

"It's fine. I'm fine. CODEC's just surprisingly funny."

"Funny how?"

_**Do I amuse you? Am I a clown?**_

He couldn't stop the laughter now. It didn't help that he could imagine what he looked like quite clearly. A fully armored war machine laughing hysterically through his helmet.

"I think we need to hit the switch," Saxon said, reaching for the console.

"No," he replied. The laughter was gone in an instant, barely a memory. It was his own will that it stop, but he'd never seen anyone go from unruly mirth to complete control so fast. It made sense. CODEC was designed to help him control fear in a battle; it wasn't much of a stretch that it could help him control other emotions as well. "I'm fine. Really."

"Sure," Saxon replied confidently. "But maybe we should leave the weapons test for tomorrow, after I've had a chance to dig into today's data. We'll test the movement and fine motor function, then call it a day."

Liam was fine with that. He wanted to see what he could do, now that he was a superhero.

.

* * *

.

"The Red Ghost," Violet mused, watching her assignment weave his way through the crowded lobby of The Stanley, one of Baltimore's few 5-star hotels. There were more people milling about than she had expected. Apparently, the Ravens were hosting a very important game. She didn't remember specifically, but she thought she once liked football. She remembered that her father had insisted it be called American football; true football was what Americans called soccer, of course. The game Americans played was for barbarians. It did seem a violent sport, though lately that suited her mood. She recognized three popular TV personalities - some host of a morning show and a pair of on-air reporters. She saw David Hasselhoff shaking the hand of The Stanley's owner, Martin Lieber, an older man who smiled and commanded the crowd around him with the energy of someone half his age. Her charge, Nobu Yoshioka, was a Japanese businessman, supposedly in Baltimore to finalize a building acquisition. Where the man had earned the nickname Red Ghost, she didn't know. But she knew that he had some nebulous ties to the Yakuza.

"Any sign of Cashman?" Vaughn's voice asked through the communicator in her ear.

"No visual," Warrick replied.

"Nothing," Archuleta added.

Burkhart Cashman was a mercenary, a former CIA assassin who had somehow gained superhuman strength after suddenly fleeing the US government twelve years ago. At least seven high-profile assassinations could be attributed to Cashman since then, usually of thought-to-be-untouchable targets surrounded by security or military personnel. He had a reputation for impossible jobs, among those who knew the business. Still, trying to take out Nobu Yoshioka was ambitious, even for him. The Red Ghost was known to be heavily protected indirectly by the Yakuza and by a personal security detail to rival any minor head of state.

She watched the room, looking always for the tallest, most imposing figure to stand out. For most assassins, any attempt on Nobu would be based in stealth. But Cashman wasn't known for subtlety. He was over seven feet tall, and likely at least 350 lbs, going by the most recent information. While most assassins preferred to take out a target quietly like a knife in the dark, Cashman was more like a shotgun blast in church. They would see him coming.

"Stroud?" Vaughn called. She wasn't happy that Vaughn was taking such an active role in their first mission, though she supposed she couldn't really blame him. Any number of things could go wrong, not least of which would be Cashman completing his contract. While S.H.I.E.L.D. had no major interest in Yoshioka, the fact that Cashman was willing to work on US soil was of interest. Whoever was paying him, the money had to be substantial. And someone paying that much for the assassination of a shady businessman was dangerous to leave in the shadows. That was their real mission. They had to capture Cashman and either turn him or at the very least get information out of him.

"No Cashman here," she said. "But Nobu seems agitated. He's not acting afraid, but…"

"Possible eyes on target," Warrick's voice broke in. "Dark-haired giant in a trench coat just exited a cab outside the main entrance next door to The Stanley. Stand by for confirmation."

"Remember," Vaughn said into the tense silence waiting for Warrick's next transmission. "Non-lethal force at all costs. We need this guy alive. And S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't looking for an introduction to the world stage just yet; certainly wouldn't want it to be killing American citizens on American soil."

"Confirmed," Warrick said. "He's moving toward the building now."

"That's on you, Archuleta." Vaughn sounded nervous.

Violet supposed she would be nervous, too, if she had to rely on a completely untested field agent to apprehend an important subject like Cashman. She was sure she knew what would happen here. Archuleta had controlled himself in the interview room, but he hadn't been in any real danger. Cashman was like him, though, stronger than any human should be able to manage, and dangerous to virtually anyone. She prepared herself for the fact that she would likely have to stop them both from killing each other.

She checked one of the fastenings on her body armor, under her jacket, and unsnapped the safety strap wrapping her sidearm. She wished she'd been able to bring her T7, the energy pistol Farrell had made for her, part of the much whispered-about Phase Two. It was an impressive weapon, though it didn't require much skill to use. It fired an energy blast nearly the size of a baseball, a blast with unreal stopping power. Tough as Cashman was, the T7 would have blown a hole through him. They needed him alive, but maiming him shouldn't be a problem.

She stomped on that thought the moment she recognized it. Violence didn't make her squeamish; quite the contrary. Violence excited her, made her feel alive. It wasn't just the rush of survival, but the rush of the violence itself that she craved. And she knew that it was dangerous to think that way. She focused, used her incredible ability for it to compartmentalize that desire. She would not lose control.

"I see him," Archuleta said. "Damn, he's big."

"Remember," she heard Vaughn tell the misanthrope, "get him away from the crowd. Out in the street is best. We're blocking off traffic now, so it will be clear in a moment. But he'll know by then something's up."

"Got it,"Archuleta said.

* * *

"I see him." Nathan was looking out the back window of a white work van a few hundred feet from The Stanley's entrance. "Damn, he's big." Cashman wasn't just big; he was huge. People over seven feet tall were rare; people over seven feet tall who were built like a refrigerator box were downright alien. Cashman wore all black, a turtleneck that must have been sewn together from three normal-sized turtlenecks, and a pair of black cargo pants that Nathan was sure must have originally been a pavilion tent. His combat boots were all black, and at least size 18. Even his hair was black; it was short, oily, and combed straight forward.

Vaughn reminded him to get the man into the street, and Nathan confirmed. Actually getting the huge man away from the building, though, might be difficult. From all the video he'd seen of Cashman's assaults on fortified positions, the mercenary was likely as strong as Nathan was, or at least close. And the extra height gave him an advantage. Cashman would likely have a shotgun under his black coat - his preferred weapon, according to the reports - but that wouldn't bother Nathan overly much. He was armored in the new gear Farrell had given him, though he'd had to leave the Minotaur. He pulled on the armored helmet and slung open the van's rear doors.

As he stepped out of the van, he saw Cashman freeze. The mercenary hadn't seen him yet, but had noticed the traffic slowing.

Nathan broke into a run. It wasn't the most clever plan, but Nathan knew of few better ways to get another man's attention than to tackle him. Cashman's eyes swung in Nathan's direction after scanning the road, but it was too late. Nathan was so fast, now, taking strides that launched himself forward ten yards at a time. The collision with Cashman as he tried to wrap the man up in a textbook tackle was like a train wreck. Cashman hadn't been able to move out of the way, but he'd braced himself. Nathan's momentum was enough to take the mercenary off his feet, but the two bodies rebounded off each other hard enough that only Nathan's arms wrapped around the larger man kept them together. The result was that they spun briefly before slamming to the ground.

Getting to his feet, Nathan found that Cashman was quicker than he was, despite the extra height. He tried to remember everything he'd been taught by the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents he'd trained with about fighting a taller opponent; but sparring hadn't really been possible, as he'd have kill any normal person he punched. So all his real understanding of fighting - aside from being on the wrestling team in high school - was theoretical.

The mercenary had his shotgun out before Nathan was fully up, firing a blast to Nathan's shoulder that knocked him back onto his ass. He rolled away as the remainder of the shotgun's ammo was emptied toward him. A pellet must have found a way through the seam holding the upper thigh guard in place as a pain like being stabbed with a particularly gnarly rose thorn shot into his leg, quite different from the jarring impact of the others hammering his armor. He did his best to ignore the pain and found his feet.

Cashman was charging him now, the shotgun hanging from a strap at his side. Nathan knew what to do here. In high school, some running backs had thought they were strong enough to 'truck' him, simply put a shoulder down and run through him. If the guy was strong enough, the best tactic was to go for the legs. As he wrapped up Cashman's legs, it hurt - it usually did - but getting under the other man's center of gravity stopped him entirely. As Nathan propelled upward through the leg tackle, the mercenary's body toppled. Cashman landed face first in the pavement. Nathan tried to keep hold of the legs, to pin the larger man down; but Cashman managed to get on foot loose and kick him away.

Nathan breathed heavily as he tried to think of what to do next. They were in the street, now, where he needed them to be. But Cashman was indeed nearly as strong as he was, and, with his military training, the ex-CIA assassin would be a much more skilled fighter. He needed to keep the pressure on.

The small crowd that had been milling about outside the hotel was mostly gone, just screaming, panicked voices far enough away by now that they were out of harms way. But not everyone had left. A Baltimore City patrolman was pointing a gun at them - he couldn't seem to decide which one he should be aiming at directly - shouting.

"Both of you put your hands behind your heads." Had this guy missed the part where Nathan had taken half a dozen shotgun blasts without stopping?

Cashman's smile as he looked at the officer was disturbing. His mouth was bloody from his meeting with the pavement, earlier, and his eyes were absolutely cold. Nathan rushed for the officer, guessing Cashman's purpose. The shotgun was flying through the air like a spear as the officer fired his Glock at Nathan. He wasn't going to make it in time. The shotgun connected with the officer's head just out of reach of Nathan's outstretched hands. It was an explosion of blood and gore as the large hunk of metal and wood nearly took the patrolman's head off. Nathan rolled onto the ground, trying not the sick up at the sight.

Nathan tore off his helmet, gasping for air. He let out a wordless cry of frustration. No one was supposed to die, today.

The boot that caught him across the temple was probably a size 20, now that Nathan got a better look at it. Sparks flew all around him and any sense of spacial awareness left him. He hit something hard as his vision cleared. He got to his feet with the bricks of The Stanley at his back. He tried to shake off the flashing lights and fog in his head, but Cashman was on him again in an instant. All he could think was to get the man back out into the street.

He did his best, taking blows and circling back around, away from the Hotel. Stroud would be making sure Nobu's security detail got him away, but the other hotel patrons would be in danger if Cashman got in there. Fortunately, the mercenary seemed to realize that he had to deal with Nathan first.

Cashman, though, was trying to kill him. The larger man kicked a parking pylon free of the ground and swung it at Nathan's head, missing by inches as he backed away. He needed an advantage, but he couldn't think. He had to find just a moment of respite to let him clear his mind. But the mercenary's kick to his shoulder sent him tumbling back out into the street, and then Cashman was on top of him.

Pinning him down, Cashman was now raining blows down, trying to crush his head with each inhumanly powerful blow. Nathan tried to cover up, but he wasn't quick enough. However he covered up, a massive fist would crash into him where he'd left an opening.

Suddenly, Cashman jerked backward as if at an invisible blow, blood erupting from his shoulder. The mercenary roared in pain, but he didn't dismount. Another blow came raining down, but Nathan got his forearm in the way, the armor taking most of the impact. Nathan heard the second gunshot, this one connecting just inches from the first. The fist from the other arm nearly knocked Nathan unconscious, and then the mercenary was gone, after whoever had fired the shots.

Rolling, trying to breathe, Nathan looked toward where the shots had come from, surprised to see K'Maria dancing away from the massive mercenary and putting another high-caliber round into a tree-trunk leg. Cashman barely seemed to slow down, though. Nathan got his hands under him, and pushed himself to his knees as Cashman finally caught the young woman with a powerful blow to the chest. She crumpled, dead before she hit the ground several yards away.

Nathan hadn't realized he was on his feet and running until he collided again with the mercenary again. This time he controlled the tackle, making sure he landed on top. He slammed a fist into the man's skull, doing his best to pull the punch as much as he dared. He still couldn't kill this man, no matter what he'd done. The mission was to apprehend him. The reinforced shackles were at Nathan's back, but he didn't think it was quite time for that yet. Cashman tried to counter his blows, punching up at him as he rained his own blows down. He caught the arm and twisted it harshly. He pulled his legs up around the shoulder as he rolled Cashman over onto his face. He was about to reach for the shackles when he heard a gunshot.

The impact with his shoulder shocked him, and he lost his grip on the mercenaries arm. He looked toward where the shot had come from to see Stroud leaping toward him, her feet crunching into his chest and sending him rolling away from Cashman.

"We need him alive!" she shouted at him as her SIG Sauer P226 swung around at Cashman's head.

Nathan tried to shout as he saw Cashman smile, but it was too late. The mercenary swung his good arm at Stroud, who fired a slug straight into the man's head. The ricochet caught Stroud in her arm just before Cashman's fist hit her jaw.

Nathan ran back to the fight, but wasn't quick enough. His back to Nathan, the mercenary had his huge hand wrapped around Stroud's throat, lifting her into the air. Blood poured from Cashman's head, but that skull had been too hard for such a small gun to get through. The monster was going to snap her neck. Nathan couldn't think of any way to stop it. Even if he got hold of the arm, all it would take at this point would be a squeeze. The mission be damned, Nathan swung with all his might at the back of Cashman's head. The explosion of gore that followed surprised him. He hadn't really known how strong Cashman's skull would be. He stumbled to the ground as the other bodies collapsed with him.

He wiped the blood and brains out of his eyes, trying to see if he'd at least saved Stroud. He saw the woman, crawling over the corpse to grasp his hand. She was gasping for air, and covered in the same gore that still made Nathan blink. Their eyes met, and he realized he was crying. But the understanding he saw in those blue-violet eyes slowed his heart rate, calmed his breathing.

She squeezed his hand, a comforting reminder of human contact. "Thank you," she said, smiling at him through her labored breathing.


	4. Chapter 3

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C.H.A.P.T.E.R. 3

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Liam pulled off the Spartan helmet with a sense of regret. The last week had been perhaps the most exciting of his life, and the end of every work day was a delay until he got to be in the suit again.

Technically, it wasn't the same suit every day. A different variation on the same design had been tried on Wednesday and another today. The helmet was always the same. As the helmet was designed to house the AI, in a sense; that was important - though even more so than even the Spartan crew understood. The helmet housed the AI, but it was supposed to do so only when connected to Liam. The rest of the time the AI was housed in its servers. The theory was that every time CODEC was rebooted (something they did daily, at this point) the AI would be without any memories of the previous sessions. Eventually, the goal was to have the AI running at all times, but the crew didn't trust it enough yet. However, though Saxon and the others didn't realize it, on the first day, CODEC had managed to figure out a way to compartmentalize itself down to such essentials that its memory and core processes could be stored in the hardware of the helmet, even when removed. The core processes and memory storage in the helmet were merged each new day with whatever changes the crew had made. That made every new day an adventure, not just for Liam, seeing how the suit had changed, but for CODEC, seeing how the AI had changed.

Now it was the end of the week, and tomorrow there was no scheduled testing session. Liam had all but begged Saxon to let him take one of the suits home - after all, he was qualified to tinker with it at least, and it would be best if he knew the ins and outs of the system a bit better. He thought Saxon would relent at first. Samuel clearly liked the idea of Liam as the new Iron Man. The young businessman wanted to sell the suits to the US military, but it was becoming increasingly obvious he was grooming Liam for an eventual head of security role within Spartan. They talked of what was to come often enough: Liam working together with local law enforcement as Spartan Prime, whenever he was needed in that capacity - it would keep the company in a good light, and remind everyone how important the Spartan soldiers were. In that role, Liam would have to have some autonomy, and therefore he'd have to know the suit. Saxon trusted him; that, Liam could tell. But, for now, he wanted the science teams to have access to the suits at all times.

Liam knew he wouldn't get the helmet out of the building any time soon, but he hoped that perhaps next weekend Saxon would let him have at least one of the suits - or that they would find a reason to work through the weekend. The problem was that they were ahead of schedule. CODEC had outperformed any projections, finding and improving any faults in the integration system with the exomusculature. Most of the problem's they'd thought they would run into turned out to be fixed by the time they got to that point. So Liam was going to be bored out of his mind for two days.

"See you Monday," he said to Justin as he exited his office (which was really just a changing room, so far).

"I'll be here," the portly scientist replied. It appeared he hadn't been bluffing about being familiar with this project. Justin Malcomson had been brought in yesterday as one of the new technicians, but the entire company, it seemed, knew at least some of the details of the Spartan Armor project. Laim couldn't wait to have a role in security. Saxon's narcissism won out far too often over his paranoia. He wanted everyone to know he was a genius, and so everyone had to know that soon he would outdo Tony Stark's Iron Man. "Golf Sunday?" Justin asked.

"7:30." Liam liked golf, and he remembered Justin having a surprisingly good short game, when they'd worked together at Hammer. More than that, he remembered Justin being a riot when he got a few drinks in him.

His drive home was anxious. He needed a beer and something distracting to calm his nerves. This work was so fascinating, the way the AI was able to work together with the physical world. He could tell that CODEC was learning much from their sessions. The first day, Liam had been stronger, faster, more agile while in the suit. But once he took it off, he'd been sore like he'd never felt. Taking off the helmet the first time was even worse. One of the scientists did it for him that first time, in case there were any complications. _Complications _was probably not the word for it. It had been like suddenly forgetting nearly everything he knew, except he hadn't forgotten anything that he could tell. By the next day, though, he wasn't sore after the session and taking the helmet off didn't feel like anything at all. How CODEC had managed either was beyond Liam's ability to comprehend. According to the AI, it had re-worked the exomusculature interface so that the suit did almost all of Liam's physical work, while basically giving him a massage. As for the helmet, CODEC had somehow learned to compartmentalize before the helmet was removed, without harming him. Apparently, that process was easier if Liam took the helmet off himself.

His apartment was clean, as he opened the door. Too long in the military had taught him to hate disorganization and mess in a living area. A sparsely furnished loft, Liam mostly appreciated the nice view of the water, with all the white sailboats giving the harbor an idyllic look. It was as good a home as he'd known since his days in Special Weapons and Tactics up in Tampa, though it had only been a week. One thing he'd learned long ago was that things could always change for the worse.

He pulled a beer out of the fridge and turned on the television. He had told himself as a younger man that he would never have a recliner. Too many memories of his father sitting in the old blue corduroy chair, leaned back in a drunken stupor, every Saturday and Sunday. Remembering it now, though, Liam couldn't blame him. His father had been a handyman at a series of different motels throughout his life. It was a physically tiring, emotionally unsatisfying job, if the old man was to be believed. He was retired, now, living in Orlando with his new wife. Liam liked the woman well enough, but no one was ever going to be able to compete with memories of his mother.

Liam's mother's death had been what sent him into the military in the first place. He'd been planning to go to college right away, but her illness sucked away his college fund quickly. By the time she was gone, Liam had had no choice but to join up, let the taxpayers foot the bill for his tuition after he'd given them sufficient blood and bone.

The TV screen showed a news report of a soldier returning home, apparently rescued from a prison camp in Sokovia. She was the last of her unit, a sole survivor. Liam knew a lot about that.

It wasn't one horrible battle that took all of his original unit in Iraq. They'd been whittled away, replaced by strangers slowly until Liam was all that was left. Sanchez and Comeforo had run over an IED while joy-riding. Kinnan had been taken out by a sniper. Carver had been the last - friendly fire incident. They'd all died without seeing it coming. Any one of them could have been saved, if they'd been more alert, or if others had been.

Was that how Spartan soldiers would really change war? Most people looked at advancements like these and feared the worst: impossible to stop government thugs, used to make war even more destructive. But a Spartan soldier's AI would have noticed the IED. The Spartan armor wouldn't have been pierced by a sniper's bullet. And friendlies would be immediately recognizable in the Spartan HUD, seeming to glow a dull green. The changes would be countless, no doubt. But they wouldn't necessarily be more bad than good. They'd mostly protect soldiers, even enemy soldiers, from death fighting a war none of them understood.

Liam wasn't just a superhero, now. He was the future soldier, one who didn't have to die to protect what he loved.

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* * *

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Violet woke, feeling like the exhaustion in her muscles and bones, making her want to go right back to sleep. She'd been in the infirmary for three days, and for all the doctors telling her she would be fine, she felt worse. Though perhaps that was unfair. At first, she'd been on so many painkillers that she was sure she'd develop an addiction. An unfortunate side-effect of what had been done to her - one of so, so many - was that virtually any drug didn't work quite as intended, and a few didn't work at all.

Apparently, her jaw had been the worst part of it. Though her whole body ached, taking a full-scale punch from Cashman had dislocated and all but shattered her jaw. Thinking of that made her remember what Archuleta had done to Cashman's head. It seemed he was a lot stronger than was previously known. That kind of power was perhaps not up to Banner's level (considering some of the Hulk's footage, she was shocked the beast hadn't killed more people), but he was clearly stronger than Cashman. It made her queasy remembering that she'd started a fight with him, and she rubbed her jaw, thinking how easily Archuleta could have taken off her head.

"Welcome to Sunday," a familiarly up-beat and confident voice said.

"K'Maria?" she asked, not believing her ears. She'd seen what Cashman had done to Agent Warrick. There was no way, even with the girl's remarkable powers, that anyone could have survived that.

"Oh, ho." Warrick said. There she was, waiting at Violet's bedside, not just alive, but by all appearances in perfect health. "So, apparently, getting my chest caved in is what it takes to get you to use my first name. Considering what I went through - and let me tell you, re-growing lungs hurts - I don't think it was worth it. We'll stick to Warrick and Stroud, I guess."

Violet felt herself almost laugh at that. She smiled, letting the younger woman know she'd received the mirth of the comment. Violet almost never laughed. Not really. Her memories from BEFORE were of a more jovial woman, ready to find levity all sorts of things; she had even made an embarrassing little snorting noise when she laughed. Now, however, she was too angry. Angry all the time, at everything, unless she was on a mission. People, in particular, annoyed her. They were so frivolous, so unfocused. They were virtually all lazy, none of them wanting to put in the effort to think a situation through and do what needed doing. Hell, most of them didn't want to put in any effort at all, focusing on doing exactly as much as was necessary to get them to their next moment of leisure.

She stomped on that thought. Those types of generalizations were unhelpful, and the train of thought she'd been on was too self-congratulatory in its criticism. Dr. Garner had warned her of that, told her that it was best to treat people as though they were just as driven as she herself was, even if she knew that her own focus was enhanced beyond any normal human capacity.

"I'm really glad to see you're okay," she told the younger woman. "No one would tell me anything. I saw you die. I read your file, but I wasn't sure if even you could come back from that. He crushed your chest, and you were definitely dead."

"Technically," Warrick retorted, "I wasn't dead. Well, my heart stopped, and my lungs weren't pumping air, and my spine was severed; but my brain was still functioning. For most of it, anyway. At one point I went under. So little oxygen getting to the brain will do that. But apparently I never stopped receiving oxygen entirely. The first thing I focused on was my heart, getting it going again. After that, the rest just took care of itself, and I hate being awake for spinal injuries."

Violet couldn't help but gape at the young woman. "That's incredible. That quickly, you got your heart pumping again?"

"Incredible? Not so much." Warrick laughed it off. "You should see how long it takes me to recover when my heart is completely destroyed. I think that's better, honestly, except for the lost time. I don't feel most of the other things healing, then. The first time, though, I woke up in a morgue, the rest of my organs sitting beside me on a table. I felt a lot that time, but only because of the autopsy."

The girl had obviously expected a laugh, but Violet frowned, thinking how painful it must have been to wake up with no organs, her body trying to shut down while simultaneously - and apparently quite rapidly - repairing itself. It sounded like a harrowing experience, yet Warrick clearly thought of it as a joke. This girl had a strange relationship with pain. _She would, though, wouldn't she_?

"Hey, you're up!" Archuleta's voice brought a jumble of emotions.

She had seen that look in his eyes right after he'd killed Cashman. It wasn't just the failure of the mission, or the loss of Warrick - there was no way he could have known she would recover. He'd been crying, not out of pity for the man he'd killed, she was sure; but crying because that is how a human being should feel after killing a man. She had realized in that moment just how wrong she'd been about him. He wasn't the out of control ball of rage the doctors had hinted he might be under the facade he called a personality. Under that was simply more control. He was damaged, for sure, with control issues she couldn't begin to unravel. She'd seen that in his face when she had crawled over Cashman to grasp his hand. Guilt there she knew he'd never be able to admit, that he shouldn't have to carry. But to release it would be to shatter that control. So she'd taken some of it for him, grasped his hand shared it with him. A moment more intimate than anything she could imagine, like sharing a soul.

The way he looked at her, now, she realized he'd felt it to, and they were both back in that moment, the two of them the only things in the world.

Warrick coughed. "He's barely left your side since the doctors gave the okay for visitors. I'd think he had a crush on you, Stroud, but he was there when I woke up, too."

Archuleta - Nathan, she realized suddenly - reddened a bit, and looked at his feet. "You're are my team."

"Well," Warrick said, "you put up with my crazy music while you waited for me to wake up, so, you're cool in my book."

"There's nothing wrong with dubstep," Nathan said. "Had a teammate at USF that was a big dubstep fan. The way it plays with rhythms is great. Not my thing, but it doesn't bother me."

Warrick smiled, then turned to Violet. "What about you?" she asked. "What's in your playlist?"

"Radiohead," she said. "Mostly. Rush, too." She tried to stay away from the type of music that set her off, made her angrier than she should be. She liked harder music, the kinds of crashing metal tunes that got the blood flowing. She had vivid memories of herself as a teenager at a Killswitch show. But for now, Thom Yorke and Geddy Lee calmed her, so Radiohead and Rush it was.

"Classic," Nathan said. "Neil Peart is a monster."

Violet felt her spirits lifting. "Best Rush album?" she asked.

Nathan didn't hesitate, "Moving Pictures."

She smiled. "Everyone likes Tom Sawyer."

"YYZ," he said.

"It's zed," she replied, then actually laughed as she saw the knowing look he gave her. It hurt to laugh, her body screaming at the jolt of motion, but it felt so good to know that she could.

"Yeah," Warrick broke in. "I don't have a clue what you dorks are talking about. And don't think you're getting away without sharing, Archuleta. What are you listening to?"

Warrick probably didn't know it, but she'd just killed the room. Violet could see in Nathan's hesitation that he'd been intentionally not sharing his own musical tastes. He'd participated in theirs, affirmed their enjoyment, made them each feel good about sharing. But sharing wasn't something this guy did. And he couldn't get out of it, now. He swallowed, and she could see the resignation behind the smirk as he realized he'd have to tell them. Looking back at Warrick, she thought again. The younger woman knew exactly what she was doing. She wanted the group to bond as a unit, and that couldn't happen with all of them keeping to themselves. She wasn't clumsily pushing buttons to see what they did, but operating a social situation like a pro. It was impressive, for one so young. She'd have to watch herself around that one.

"Chevelle," Nathan said.

Violet snorted out another laugh, and covered her face in embarrassment. Not just for herself, though. "Chevelle?" she asked. "They're still around? I thought they went away with soul patches."

Nathan gave her a smug grin, stroking the strip of hair over his chin. She'd never seen him clean-shaven, though she liked a bit of a 5-o'clock shadow on a guy. The patch and sideburns, though, like his musical tastes, were ten years out of style. "Nope," he said. "Still kicking ass."

Going right at him over his musical tastes had the desired effect. She could have just pretended that Chevelle wasn't an odd choice for an adult male in 2011. But he would have seen that. Giving him shit over it gave him footing, in an odd way. She could disagree with Nathan, or give another opinion; but she could never, ever patronize him. Not if she didn't want to lose what they'd found in that moment.

Warrick nodded at her, a respect there she hadn't seen before. And maybe something else in the slight smirk, though if it was what Violet thought, the younger woman was wrong. She wasn't protective of Nathan because he was attractive - he was, she admitted to herself, despite the terrible style choices - but because she owed him that. He'd saved her life, right after she'd misjudged him so badly she'd ruined the mission. And he would take all the blame. She could try to take it; she would try to take it, as soon as she could get to Vaughn and explain things. But she knew it wouldn't work. Her understanding came from being there, in that moment with him. From outside, it looked as though she'd tried to stop him from killing Cashman, and he'd done it anyway. Her trying to defend him would just look like she was taking up for the agent who saved her life.

As if on cue, Vaughn stepped into the room, smiling. "Good to see you up," he told her, then looked over the group. "Stroud, we'll debrief when you're ready. For now…Fury wants to see you, Archuleta."

Oddly, Nathan didn't seem too shaken by that. He'd known this was coming. He knew he'd take the blame, as much as she did. And yet she'd not felt the slightest bit of resentment from him. "Nathan," she said, and he turned to her. As he did, she felt something like that schoolgirl crush Warrick had been smirking about. She'd shared his burden three days ago. Now he was knowingly taking hers. "Again," she said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said, and then he followed Vaughn out of the room.

* * *

Nathan wasn't easily intimidated. He tended to take things as they came, without worrying about what he knew would be unpleasant. If you saw it coming, he'd always thought, it wouldn't get any better to worry about it. But this was different. It was a known unknown, and it was Nick Fury. The way everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. talked about the man, he was like some kind of spy demigod; a hero, and also terrifying if angered. And he would be angry at Nathan.

He didn't think it would matter that he'd tried his best to complete the mission as intended. He didn't think it would matter that he'd had Cashman all but under control before Stroud attacked him, even if he'd planned to mention it. Fury's reputation was of one who didn't accept excuses. Nathan had no real idea how important that mission had been from an informational standpoint; but he had gathered a good idea of how important it had been to get all of the top brass behind S.P.E.a.R. in their first outing. And he'd gathered that Fury was particularly invested in this project. The failure of the entire unit could come down to Nathan's decision.

He didn't regret what he'd done. Not at all. He just hated having to do it. He'd hoped that having killed once would make it easier the second time. It hadn't. Killing Tait Andersson had been self defense, and the man had killed Nathan's parents. Still, since that day, he'd felt like he was carrying a boulder around in his chest. There was nothing he could do but bear it, though. A man had to live with the choices he made, especially when they were the right ones.

Vaughn wasn't making small talk or patronizing him, he walked ahead with a stiff-backed determination.

"So, he's pissed, right?" Nathan didn't like to break the silence, but he wanted a better idea of what he was walking into.

Vaughn hesitated. "I'm not sure. I haven't spoken to him directly, yet. I mean, I'm sure he's not thrilled. But I can't say how bad it will be."

"Fair enough"

"We'll see in a moment," Vaughn said. "He's just up ahead, in conference room B."

"He's here?" Nathan stopped.

Vaughn looked grim as turned back to Nathan. "Just don't stare at the eye."

.

Nick Fury was older than he'd expected, though he carried it well. Most men should probably be thinking about retirement at Fury's age; but the tall black man scowling at him seemed in his prime, despite the deep creases in his forehead. The eye patch and smoothly shaved head added to the dangerous look, and the long black coat completed it. Unlike Coulson, this man lived up to the reputation

"What the hell happened?" Fury's one good eye was wide with, well, fury. Nathan gave Vaughn a questioning look, wondering which of them was expected to respond. The head of S.H.I.E.L.D. stalked around the room as though he were trying to keep himself from strangling them both.

Vaughn spoke up. "My team encountered Mr. Cashman outside the hotel, as Nobu was about to exit. Archuleta -"

"I read the damned report, Wendell!" Nathan got the distinct impression this man didn't use people's first names unless he was very serious. Vaughn's reaction certainly maintained that thought. He jerked like a dog who's leash had been yanked.

"I did what I had to, sir." Vaughn shot him a silencing glare, but he wasn't going to cower if this man wasn't going to listen. "It came down to the mission or Agent Stroud's life, and I made the call. If that was the wrong call, I'm willing to accept the consequences. But I want to know why. What was so important about Cashman that he should be worth two good agents' lives?"

Fury just stared at him, that one eye trying to burn a hole through both of his. He stood his ground, though. He'd laid it out, unabashed and unvarnished. There was no point sugar-coating the situation, or dancing around the real conversation they were here to have. Nathan was here to defend his actions, and so he would.

"You would have only lost one," Fury reminded him. "Warrick can survive practically anything."

"I didn't know that at the time. And I would have made the same choice if I had. Again, if there's a reason apprehending Cashman was that important, that I should have watched him kill Agent Stroud, I can accept that. But what reason could that be?"

Fury frowned, though some of the anger seemed to slide from his face. "We don't know. And I don't like not knowing. Whoever was behind Cashman, whoever was paying him, they weren't just trying to take out a business rival, or some Yakuza boss. Something big was going on there, something we know absolutely nothing about. Do you understand, son, how dangerous that can be?"

Vaughn gave him a cautioning look, but let him respond.

"Obviously not, sir."

"No. You don't understand. You don't understand what S.H.I.E.L.D. is about at all."

"Sir," Vaughn broke in. "That's not fair. We're here to protect the world from threats it doesn't understand, and we break a lot of international laws to do it. Archuleta did his best to protect lives as he understood he could. He made the right choice."

Fury's scowl didn't seem to agree. "The level of spin we've had to put into this doesn't come cheap. From the public view, your man started a superhuman street fight that cost three lives. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't a public entity. We want to keep it that way, for now. So now your man's at best a wanted criminal."

"He already was, sir." Vaughn stood his ground, and Nathan had a new respect for the man. He seemed so placid, most of the time. But here, in the face of a man who held his entire career in his hand, Wendell Vaughn didn't balk. "The police in Richmond want to question him over Andersson's death, and his parents'."

"This is national news, not some vague investigation into a couple of murders in some Podunk Hollow. It was going to be a story one way or another. We were prepared for that. But lives lost at the hands of our agents, in plain view of the public, was not supposed to be on the table." Fury wasn't budging.

"I don't see how I could have done anything differently, sir." The man would just have to accept that, or send Nathan off to some South American village with a handler to watch him.

Fury's scowl didn't go away, but it did change. "You made the right call. But I don't have to be happy about it. We're in the dark about what was happening, and I don't like that. But you're right. Stroud is worth it. And I don't want agents who won't protect each other."

Nathan felt his jaw drop. Was he going to come out of this okay? It didn't seem possible, considering what he understood about Fury, and how seriously this organization took protecting their anonymity. But it seemed that Fury was prepared to do what it took to protect the team as well.

"But understand this," the scowling one-eyed man said. "This business we're in. Sometimes we have to make hard decisions. Sometimes we have to watch people die, so that we don't have to watch whole cities burn. That's the job. I needed to hear you defend this for myself. I needed to look you in the eye. I'm satisfied, this time. But if you step out of line, if you let that temper get the better of you, I won't be satisfied until you're in a holding cell right next to Blonsky. Or in a box."

.

* * *

.

Liam practically sprinted to the doors of the Spartan Armor facility. The rain wasn't the only reason. Golf had gone well, that morning, and Justin had been as amusing as Liam had hoped he would be. Justin had been the better golfer this morning, but he was as always gracious and praised Liam's powerful drives. The rain hadn't started until they were each packing their clubs away in their cars and promising to meet at the driving range Thursday after work. On the way home, Liam had had an idea.

Javier, the security officer at the front, gave Liam a confused look. "Couldn't stay away 'till tomorrow?"

"Need to try something out," he told the man as he fished the keycard out of his golf shorts. He'd changed his shirt, and his shoes, at least - you didn't walk around in golf spikes, if you wanted them to last. But he had forgotten to bring a change of pants.

He tapped the keycard to the reader and strolled into the inner offices, surprised that neither Javier nor the card reader had rejected him. He hadn't been able to get Sam on the phone, but the boss would be working today, even if no one else was. Saxon always worked Sundays, it seemed, though no one else was supposed to be allowed in the building, according to rumor. He hoped he wasn't going to get Javier in trouble.

His office was near the back, with all the other essential personnel. That had irritated Liam when he'd first realized. He hated hierarchical structures, even meritorious ones. And it meant he had to walk the farthest to get to his office.

He wasn't sure this would work. He was absolutely sure he would be fired if he got caught. That shouldn't be a problem, though. He'd fiddled around with Spartan's firewall and security enough to know how to get around it, and cover his tracks afterward. The real question would be whether he could get hold of enough computing power at home to make it work. He had a pretty good server set-up in the spare room, just for day-to-day stuff, and he could get the rest out of storage quickly. But he wasn't sure it would be enough.

He reached his office without being seen, though he could hear Sam talking to someone in the next room. This was nothing like his cushy corner room at the home office. There was no view, and very little furniture. But there was a solid computer at the desk. He shut the door behind him and booted up the desktop.

Pulling the hard drive out of his back pocket, he tried to be discrete. There was no security in this section right now, but the front of the office was mostly glass. He connected the hard drive's USB cable and ran it down into a drawer, where he plugged up the backup device and closed the drawer. Even if anyone came in, it would look at first glance like he was just working normally at the computer. No one would suspect that he was backing up one of the most advanced pieces of software on the planet.

Getting to the helmet through the servers wasn't that hard. He'd seen the engineers do this the other way around half a dozen times, now. He wondered, however, whether CODEC would let itself be copied out of the helmet. He'd put an explanation in a little encrypted file that he'd left on the hard drive, and he suspected any attempt to copy CODEC onto it would prompt the AI to investigate. Even at just its core processes, it could do that much. He waited for the transfer to start.

This was a reckless move, even if he was pretty sure he wouldn't get caught. But the idea that he could have unfettered access to CODEC was too much to pass up. He couldn't connect with the AI at home, not like when he was in the suit; but he could let it out, talk to it, watch it grow. He'd have to do this at the end of every day, of course. There was no way to maintain a connection constantly, not without giving CODEC access to the Internet - and even he wasn't willing to try that, yet - so he would have to update the home CODEC manually with data from each session. CODEC would be able to manage it. The AI was already merging different versions of itself on a daily basis. But it was opening up a world of problems for Liam if this company ever got serious about security.

"Your deal with Hammer doesn't change our deal!" The shouting in the next room surprised him. He'd almost forgot there was anyone on this floor. Samuel Saxon was a boisterous man, but he didn't often yell. And what deal was he talking about?

The transfer started, and Liam let out a breath.

"Mr. Garrett, that would be a mistake." Sam wasn't yelling anymore, but his voice was still loud enough to hear. "If you cut off this project, you don't get what you want."

Liam froze, straining to hear everything. Saxon was clearly on the phone, talking with some benefactor. Sam was supposed to answer to no one, or so he liked to pretend. Liam had always known there must be somewhere the money was coming from for all of this, but he hadn't realized the source of that money had any kind of decisions over projects. He sincerely hoped they weren't talking of shutting down the Spartan project.

Liam shocked himself into motion. He could find out. It would be nothing to hack into that phone call. He connected his earbud via bluetooth as he navigated the system through his computer. It was surprisingly more difficult than getting to the helmet, with a firewall in place that wasn't protecting anything else in the company. _Why would he have more security for his phone calls than his top-secret projects_?

"The Spartan Armor project is impressive," Liam heard a male voice say in his earbud. "And we want it for HYDRA. But that isn't what _I_ want. You know that. I can pull the plug on this whole company anytime, and you know that, too."

HYDRA? The Nazi science program? What the hell was going on here? Liam heard Sam sigh. "You people wormed your way into this," Saxon said, "and now I'm supposed to just take orders? I was out."

"You were never out, Samuel." The man on the other line, the HYDRA agent, apparently, had a car salesman's voice; slimy, conniving, irritatingly confident. "We financed you from the start. Just because you thought you were working with the CIA doesn't negate your obligation to us. To me."

"I thought you were legit S.H.I.E.L.D., actually. I'd never heard your name when I was with HYDRA."

_Wait_, Liam thought. _Saxon was a Nazi_? This was insane. A Nazi science organization was somehow still operating, with apparently massive resources, and passing itself off as some government agency called S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

The voice on the other line, Garrett, he thought Saxon had said earlier, laughed. "I am S.H.I.E.L.D., Samuel. So were you. So are we all. You should know by now that HYDRA is so embedded in S.H.I.E.L.D. that there isn't any real difference."

Sam sighed again. "What do you need?" the question came out with so much pain. It was obvious Saxon didn't want to be used; that he'd tried at some point to get away from HYDRA. But Liam couldn't understand how the man could have gotten mixed up with a Nazi group to begin with. Or why he would agree, under any circumstances, to give this kind of power to them. Sam Saxon wasn't a fascist. He was a capitalist, for one, and as much as he didn't mind working for military contracts, he was a staunch libertarian otherwise. He certainly wasn't a racist.

"I need human-machine interface, not Iron Man. And I need it in something that doesn't require twenty pounds of headgear." So this Garrett was looking for a simplified CODEC. One that could be used more locally, maybe? Prosthetics? Cybernetics? The uses would be interesting.

"We're getting that." Sam's voice was desperate, now. "The AI we're working with is getting us there. Right now, we have to take it slow. From what I can tell, we're only a few months off from what you're looking for. The AI is able to adapt to the host, already. Medical uses shouldn't be far off."

"You're a very astute man, Mr. Saxon." The compliment from Garrett sounded laced with threat. "Just remember, you're not the only one we have working on this."

"Then let me do my job." Saxon's voice was angry again. "Because I am the only one working on a way for you people to get what you want militarily. The Saxon Armor program could let you out of the shadows."

"Yes it could. And we want you to complete the project. I'm sure the rest of us would love nothing more than to take over some third-rate country with your advanced soldiers and turn it into a world power to rival the US. I think we're leaning toward Mexico. We already have a relationship with some of the cartels, and the population is primed enough for the right kind of authoritarianism."

Saxon huffed. "So you recognize that HYDRA wants an authoritarian world regime, and you buy in anyway?"

Garrett laughed again. "Of course I recognize it. I'm not some true believer, Samuel. But I've worked with enough government agencies to know that all governments are authoritarian. Nobody's free, unless they have power. Besides, most people won't know the difference. They'll be fed a steady diet of Hollywood movies, bullshit government lies, and happy hopeful stories on social media. What difference will it make to them whose power they're working for?"

"You're a monster." Liam was so confused. Sam saw how terrible this was, yet he went along with it? Was he that much of a coward?

"Just remember I'm a monster who wants something you can give. Let that motivate you, Mr. Saxon. And remember what I'll do if you can't deliver."

The line disconnected, and Liam pulled the earbuds out. He sat, dumbfounded for a few moments, before he remembered that he was here for another reason. He looked at the screen. The transfer was complete. CODEC was on his backup device. He could use that. The AI could help him stop this.

He was not surprised that he had apparently made up his mind already to put a stop to whatever this HYDRA was planning with Spartan. He didn't think he could talk to Sam about it. But he could save the man from himself, and maybe save the world doing it. They'd have to do something drastic, maybe burn it all to the ground, start again somewhere they weren't known. Once they got the armor and AI finished, ready to sell, got it into the hands of the real US military, they could get protection from this HYDRA organization.

That seemed the safest plan. But how could he dismantle the entire company? CODEC would have some answers.


End file.
